


Mismatched

by dedkake



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Feelings, Holocaust references, M/M, References to Homophobia, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedkake/pseuds/dedkake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is born with their soulmate’s name written on their wrist, but despite the bond that Charles and Erik feel, their wrists don’t match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mismatched

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/7634.html?thread=12233682#t12233682) kink meme prompt. I was having a really crappy week, so I wrote something sappy.
> 
> As always, thanks, Emmy, for hand-holding and betaing.

_Maxine, Maxine, Maxine._ Charles tries to focus on the name, wraps his fingers around his wrist, where the name is printed in neat letters that he’s had memorized his whole life. It burns now, itches and throbs and aches like it’s supposed to, like Charles has felt from countless others when they’ve met their soulmates. His forearm throbs and his heart races and every breath he takes that isn’t shared hurts and yet it feels utterly perfect. But this is wrong—it’s all wrong.

“Erik,” Charles tries to say, the name breaking against Charles’ dry throat. His stomach twists when Erik looks up at him from his seat on the bed, nervous and needy and _beautiful_ , like everything Charles has ever hoped for, ever dreamed of. Except he can still feel the shockwaves of Erik’s lingering panic and fear, the overwhelming need to escape. Licking his lips and fighting down the pain, the desire, Charles says, “This isn’t right.”

The look on Erik’s face turns confused and then angry and Charles keeps his mind at a safe distance, afraid to even get a glimpse of what Erik is really thinking—of what he’s feeling. “These things don’t go wrong,” Erik says eventually, his voice low and rough.

Charles can’t even stand to hold Erik’s gaze for too long, his eyes dropping to where Erik’s fingers are tight around his own wrist, the fabric of his sleeve bunching in his grip. He doesn’t need his telepathy to see that, to see the way that Erik’s eyes are dilated, the way his shoulders are nearly heaving with the volume of his breathing. It’s all exactly as it should be, except not at all.

Licking his lips again and feeling stubborn, Charles says, “Well, it’s gone wrong this time.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for a moment and Charles can’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, running his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that reflects his confusion and frustration and that he hopes Erik doesn’t pick up on. “I’ll just—go.”

Almost before the words are out of Charles’ mouth, Erik is on his feet again, his hands grabbing at Charles’ shoulders. It feels _right_ , just as it had in the ocean, on the ship, in the CIA car, and Charles can’t ignore the way Erik’s touch makes him go weak. It’s not because of Erik’s anger or desperation or even because of his strength, it’s just because of _Erik_ , and Charles can’t hope to ignore that any longer.

Looking up is a mistake. Erik’s eyes are wide and desperate, despite the frustrated furrow of his brow, and Charles wants nothing more than to run his fingers over Erik’s jaw, lean up and kiss him. He knows instinctively that that would soothe Erik, soothe them both, that it would lead to them both on the bed, nothing else in the entire world as important as each other. Resolutely, Charles keeps his hands at his sides.

Erik opens his mouth to say something, but freezes when Charles licks his lips again.

“Please,” Charles says, voice still broken. “Please, Erik.”

Pulling away physically hurts, even though Erik drops his hands with little resistance, but it’s nothing compared to the pain of walking away. Charles barely makes it to the door of the small hotel room before sinking to the floor to catch his breath and fight down the pain radiating from his chest. Leaving, taking even another step, would be impossible, but Charles doesn’t know what else to do. He turns slightly, propping himself up against the door and it helps to even look back at Erik, where he’s once again seated on the edge of the bed, fingers around his wrist. Charles feels his resolve break.

“Erik,” he says, and this time his voice feels strong.

It only takes Erik a moment to cross the room to him. He slides down the wall to sit beside Charles, sucking in a few, relieved gasps of air as he does. Charles watches warily, expectantly, as Erik slowly lets go of his own wrist and grabs Charles’ hands instead. Erik’s grip is warm and comfortable and Charles shivers at the contact, the pain fading away.

Erik squeezes Charles’ hands gently and breathes his name and Charles doesn’t know how he’ll ever get used to the way it rings through him. “Can I see?” Erik asks, and Charles looks down to where Erik’s fingers are resting against the hem of his sleeve.

Everything goes cold and Charles barely resists pulling away entirely. Shame, irrational and tight, settles in his stomach, but Charles forces himself to look back at Erik, to nod. It’s not his fault; it’s neither of their faults.

“It’s not you,” Charles says softly, keeping his eyes on Erik’s face as Erik pulls his sleeve up. He knows what’s there— _who’s_ there—already. He can’t stop thinking of her, what this will mean for her, what it means for all of them.

Erik’s breath hitches, his jaw clenching with it and the pain that Charles can see flickering in his eyes. Charles can very nearly hear the name echoing in Erik’s mind, even if he’s still holding his telepathy close. 

_Maxine_.

Charles has spent his whole life imagining his future wife, her wit, her laugh, their children, their home, but it’s always been tainted by the fantasy of masculine musk, the burn of stubble on skin, the feel of a cock in his hand, on his tongue. And it all makes sense now. Except that it doesn’t, because it still says _Maxine_ on his arm, not _Erik_.

“I’m sorry,” Charles hears himself saying before he’s really thought it through.

“Don’t,” Erik starts, his voice colored with hurt and anger. His fingers are digging into the name on Charles’ wrist, nails biting into his skin. Somehow it is still better than the aching of being separated. “You don’t have to apologize,” Erik starts again, slowly, as if convincing himself it’s true. “It’s fine. It will be fine. It has to be.”

The uncertainty in Erik’s voice strikes a chord of panic in Charles’ chest. “What if she—” he starts to say, but stops when Erik cuts him off.

“No,” Erik says, all uncertainty gone. “We fit. We’re right.”

Charles is beginning to realize how true that is, but he needs something more. This always seemed so simple for other people, at least people living in the real world and not in fiction, and Charles is somehow jealous of everyone he’s ever witnessed meeting their soulmates. There has to be something that will make this more clear.

Without thinking, Charles grabs for Erik’s wrist. It’s the only possible piece of their puzzle left available, and Charles needs to know. But Erik pulls away, quicker than Charles can accommodate. Charles can’t stop a small noise of frustration escaping his nose, mostly because the loss of contact has pain knotting in his chest once more.

“Sorry,” Erik says, his voice tight, but his body relaxing slightly when Charles doesn’t try to grab him again, “you startled me.”

Charles buries his face in Erik’s shoulder because it’s closest and nods. “I didn’t mean to,” he says once the pain has eased. He’s not sure how he managed to make his way all the way to the door before when even a few inches is devastating now. Once their bond has solidified, it’ll be easier to move separately, to be apart, but now it’s nearly unimaginable.

Erik shifts so his leg is pressed solidly against Charles’, and it feels good— _right_ —but Charles keeps his face where it is, because that feels good, too.

“Here,” Erik murmurs, and Charles turns his face so he can see where Erik is arranging his arms before him.

He starts with his left wrist, pushing his sleeve up to reveal the numbers from the camps. Charles had been aware of the tattoos, had known, from his dive into Erik’s mind earlier in the evening, that Erik would have one, but it’s different seeing it. It makes the suffering, the injustice, the dehumanization that it symbolizes more substantial. Charles can’t stop himself looking into Erik’s mind this time, and he’s almost overwhelmed by the tide of emotion there.

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Charles asks, “How old were you?”

Erik gives a small grunt that might be a laugh. “Don’t you know?” he asks, pulling his sleeve back down.

Charles almost explains that no, people don’t think that way, certainly not about their age—it would take a lot more work on both their parts to measure out finite facts such as age and dates. But he holds back because that’s not important. “Erik,” he says instead, and gets a small thrill at the shiver that sends through Erik’s mind and body.

“Fourteen,” Erik says shortly, pulling back his right sleeve like ripping off a bandage and turning his wrist so Charles can see.

The entire inside of his arm is muddled with burn scars, no trace of the soulmate pigmentation left at all. Charles reaches forward slowly to run his fingers over Erik’s arm and this time Erik doesn’t pull away. Erik’s memory of the sound of people screaming and crying, the feel of the hot brand pressed against his skin hits Charles like a knife and leaves him breathless. He’s never heard of this before, the way he has the numbers, only the vague notion that soulmates were torn apart. This is almost worse, he thinks, especially for a child—it’s the erasure of part of one’s soul.

With a deep breath, Charles asks the only thing he can. “Was it me?”

Erik sighs, but it sounds more like a hiss and Charles turns to look up at him. Charles can see the _yes_ on the tip of Erik’s tongue just as easily as he can tell it’s a lie. “I don’t remember,” Erik breathes. He doesn’t look away when he says it, and there’s almost a challenge in his gaze.

It hurts to hear Erik say it, to see the sincerity in his mind even though there is regret and remorse there also. This sort of repression isn’t unfamiliar to Charles, and he knows better than to push Erik on it—he can still feel Erik’s helplessness in the face of Schmidt and the submarine earlier this evening and he doesn’t want to cause him more pain. It will just be another uncertainty, another piece that makes their bond tense and hard to believe or explain.

“It was a male name,” Erik bites out after a moment, voice thick. “They never let me forget that.”

Charles grabs Erik’s hand and pulls it to his lips, pressing a kiss to Erik’s knuckles. “Listen,” he says, trying to ignore how light it makes him feel inside to see Erik watching him, to feel Erik’s faith in him, however confused Erik may be by that. “Listen. You’re here now—we’re here—and we fit. You said so yourself. Plenty of different species rely on instinct alone when choosing their mates. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to as well. We’ll be okay.”

Erik nods slowly before pulling his hand back and pushing himself to his feet, wincing at the pain the separation sparks. Charles watches him, worried for a moment that maybe they aren’t on the same page, but Erik is offering him a hand up and really Charles should stop worrying about this. As soon as Charles allows Erik to take any of his weight, however, he can feel the sweep of pleasure through them both, the slight pain in their chests, the weakness of their knees, and they both almost end up back on the floor, but Erik manages to catch himself against the door.

“Are you alright?” Charles asks, slumped back against the door.

“Fuck,” Erik says, breathless. “This is so much more difficult than anyone ever said it would be.”

Laughing, Charles pushes himself to his feet as well and wraps his hands around Erik’s. “Maybe it will be easier on the bed,” he says, and manages to lead them both back across the room without mishap.

It’s not the most ideal location, Charles thinks as he sits down, imagining his flat back in Oxford wistfully. The comforter is starchy and scratchy and the mattress is somehow neither firm nor soft, but they’re here and the bed is theirs. Erik squeezes his hands but remains standing and Charles begins to panic.

“We don’t have to,” Charles says, even though it hurts to think about surviving a second longer without sex. He knows that it’s possible for some soulmates; with enough platonic or romantic contact, there doesn’t need to be anything sexual. But Charles feels his desire acutely, and can’t stop thinking about the lust Erik had been radiating back on the ship.

Erik shakes his head, pulling his hands back to himself, and drops down next to Charles on the bed. “I’ve just—This will change everything, won’t it?” he asks, fingers digging into his knees.

Charles tries to swallow down his anxiety, but the only thing that really helps is taking one of Erik’s hands back into his own. “We really don’t have to, if you don’t want,” he says, bringing Erik’s knuckles to his lips once more.

Erik’s fingers twist to catch Charles’ jaw, turning their faces together. His eyes are bright in the poor lighting of the room, and Charles doesn’t ever want to look away. “I was so relieved,” Erik says slowly, running his thumb over Charles’ cheek. “Back on the ship, when you stopped me from kissing you—I was _so_ relieved. I wasn’t ready for this. This wasn’t in my plans and I don’t know how to make any of it work anymore.”

Charles can feel Erik’s uncertainty, his fear that they’re wrong, that their mismatched wrists prove it—his fear that what he really wants is for them to be wrong and his fear that somehow Charles will be an anchor holding him back. Everything in Erik’s mind is quick and calculating and already almost painfully familiar and Charles’ chest and wrist are burning once more.

“We’ll work it out,” Charles says, licking his lips, pushing the pain away. He tries to remember how he’d been able to turn Erik away on the ship, something to do with _Maxine, Maxine, not right, not here, Maxine_ , but he doesn’t think he could summon the strength to stop it again. He doesn’t want to, either.

Their kiss is slow and all-consuming, sparking a thread of connection between their minds that has nothing to do with Charles’ telepathy. Charles can feel the shared pain in their chests lift completely as Erik tongues his way into Charles’ mouth. As soon as Charles pushes back, everything goes white and fuzzy before the world snaps back into place and it’s perfect. Everything is perfect.

They’ve fallen back onto the bed, side by side, but everything between them— _their bond_ —is open and overflowing with each other. When Charles has caught his breath, he turns his head to look at Erik, who’s staring back, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“That was fast,” Charles says, and winces at how loud and unnecessary his voice sounds. It was fast; bonds don’t just snap into place like that—they take hours or days to grow, even if they are all apparent at the first touch, solid at the first kiss. Maybe it was the telepathy, or maybe just mutation in general, or—

Erik rolls himself on top of Charles, pushing their foreheads together and breathing in deeply. His fingers tangle snugly in Charles’ hair and he murmurs, “I never thought I’d find you.”

They don’t need words, don’t need anything except their mental bond and its physical expression, but it feels good to hear them anyway. Charles reaches up to run his fingers over Erik’s cheek, but freezes when Erik spots the name on his wrist and a spike of shared panic rolls between them at the idea that someone might come between this. For a moment, Charles considers getting up to find a wrap in his bag, something to cover it up so they don’t have to think about it. Erik glares down at him though, shifting his weight so he can take Charles’ hand in his own and turn it, settling his lips against the name that doesn’t belong.

“This is mine, just like the rest of you,” Erik says hotly, and Charles shivers and _burns_ with the truth of it.

“Clothes,” Charles murmurs, but leans up to kiss Erik again, wrapping his arms around Erik’s neck instead of pulling off their clothes. Erik laughs into it, and Charles can feel the way Erik is surprised and amused by Charles’ enthusiasm and stubbornness.

Once Erik manages to push Charles back for a moment, getting their clothes off is easy and necessary because as soon as they part, even for a second, they need for there to be as much contact as possible. It’s odd, and delightful, Charles thinks, to find that the heat spreading through him as he stares up at Erik’s naked body, follows the line of his strong shoulders with his eyes, sparks from his chest, rather than the pit of his stomach or even from his mind. Even with the lust present, thrumming clearly between them, this is about the bond between them, pulling from their hearts.

Erik holds Charles’ gaze for a moment before his eyes trail down Charles’ body, his mind alight with desire and curiosity. When Erik’s eyes stop on Charles’ cock, Charles feels himself flush, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Reaching down tentatively, Charles grasps himself, stroking a few times, but keeping his eyes locked on Erik’s face, loving the way that Erik’s jaw twitches, the way his eyes darken.

They both moan quietly, together, and Erik is reaching down to grab Charles’ hands, pushing them down into the bed on either side of his head. When he leans down to kiss Charles again, pressing his body in line with Charles as he does, it’s perfect—everything in the world sliding into place, and they moan again. As they move with each other, Charles is nearly blinded by how full his heart is of _Erik_ , how their bodies are thrumming with heat, their minds alight with the magnitude of it all.

Charles isn’t sure who moves first, but soon they each have a hand wrapped together around their cocks, rocking together, still supported by their fingers tangling in the sheets by Charles’ head. They’re still kissing, unable to move apart for even a breath, and Charles doesn’t ever want to stop. Distantly, Charles thinks of the next time, when they won’t be so consumed with their need to reinforce their bond, when he’ll be able to take his time explore Erik’s body, what he likes, which spots make him moan and which make him curse.

When they come, it’s like nothing Charles has ever felt before. The world is ringing, fuzzy at the edges, and Charles doesn’t think there are words for the sense of oneness fluttering comfortably in his chest as Erik collapses over him, burying his face in Charles’ neck.

“Are you alright?” Charles asks when he thinks his voice will work again.

Erik hums and tightens his hold on Charles, his mind coloring with concern. It only takes Charles a moment of hesitation before he’s diving back into Erik’s mind, following the strings of confusion there to their source—this single, perfect moment in which Erik wants nothing more, all of his goals and ambitions invisible under his need to stay close with Charles like this forever. The force of his contentedness tinges Erik’s mind with giddy fear and Charles wraps his arms around Erik’s shoulders, running his fingers gently through his hair.

“Erik?” Charles asks, his throat tight, afraid he’s going to lose Erik forever.

Very slowly, Erik props himself up so he can look down into Charles’ face. “I love you,” Erik says tentatively, the words almost a question, but it lights Charles up inside.

Trying to keep his happiness from bursting from him, Charles pulls Erik down into another kiss. “I love you, too,” he murmurs into Erik’s lips, enjoying the shiver it sparks down Erik’s spine.

Charles rolls them over again, pushing Erik down into the bed and running his hands across Erik’s chest. The heat between them bubbles up again, and Charles grins as Erik’s worries melt away.

Waking up the next morning is painful. Somehow in the night, Charles’ shields have slipped and it feels like the entire world is dancing across his mind. It’s been years since anything like this has happened, and Charles doesn’t want to think about how many people he’s influenced, or who have influenced him, in the last few hours. Dimly, he feels his headache echoing in Erik through their bond and his guilt doubles.

A wave of nausea rolls through him and he sits up, burying his hands in his hair and his face in his knees to fight it back. The movement has Erik stirring beside him, and Charles hisses a quiet curse. He needs a few more minutes to rebuild his shields, pull himself together.

But Erik places a hand against Charles’ back and asks, voice tight with discomfort, “Are you okay?”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t answer, afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t rebuild his shields fast. But it’s different—not more difficult, but _different_. It’s not until he realizes he’s extracting himself from a mind two cities away as easily as he could from Raven down the hall that he begins to put it together.

“Charles?” Erik asks again, this time with more force, and Charles finds himself flat on his back again, pulled down by some invisible force.

“I think my range has doubled. My telepathy, that is. Maybe tripled,” Charles says, turning to Erik, who is a mirror of wonder and amazement. “What did _you_ just do?”

Erik licks his lips and Charles doesn’t even try to stop himself from leaning forward for a quick kiss. “I don’t know. I just pulled and then you were down,” Erik says, lacing his fingers through Charles’—Charles is already jumping ahead to thoughts of iron in blood and magnetic fields. “ _Tripled?_ ” Erik asks, and Charles can feel his shock.

“I don’t know, either. I’ll have to—” Charles stops because Erik has brought their hands up and pressed his lips against _that name_ on Charles’ wrist again and all Charles can do is watch and feel the love and lust that is bubbling over in Erik’s mind.

Erik freezes suddenly, breath hot against Charles skin. He frowns and places a quick kiss on Charles’ wrist before pulling back and running his fingers over the name instead. Charles shivers.

“What is it?” Charles asks, because he can feel Erik’s confusion and curiosity.

Erik’s finger presses against the _xi_ and he looks up at Charles, brow creased in concern. “This isn’t right,” he says, and Charles’ stomach sinks.

No, no. They fixed this last night. This wasn’t supposed to be an issue anymore, at least not right away. Charles can’t imagine trying to walk away from Erik now, his chest beginning to ache at the thought of it, his wrist throbbing under Erik’s fingers. “You can’t—” Charles starts to say, choking on the words, suddenly unable to breathe. When he closes his eyes, he can feel Erik’s panic as well.

“I’m sorry—we’re perfect—I love you,” Erik corrects, his sincerity overwhelming. “But _this_ is wrong. Your name.”

Charles frowns, although he wants nothing more than to curl up against Erik and never leave after that scare. “What do you mean?” he asks, watching Erik’s fingers trace the letters on his arm.

“It’s ink—a tattoo. I can feel it now. I’ve never been able to before, but—” Erik cuts himself off and looks up into Charles’ eyes, his fingers covering the _ine_ completely. “This should just say _Max_.”

There’s silence for a moment, Charles’ mind jumping over the fascinating connection between the growth of Erik’s mutation and his own to the surprisingly small range of reasons why the name on his arm would have been altered, all of which lead back to his parents. He’s under no delusions about his parents, knows that they weren’t the best suited people for the task, but he’s never considered them cruel before.

“Are you sure?” Charles asks, his throat dry. He knows the answer already, can feel Erik’s certainty through their newly formed bond as well as feel the metal of the ink when he dips farther into Erik’s mind with his telepathy. It’s almost impossible to comprehend.

Erik nods, searching Charles’ gaze briefly before glaring down at the letters. There’s a spike of hatred in his mind—hatred for the name and the vague, faceless people he imagines put it there—and Charles winces with the force of it.

Rubbing lightly at his temple, Charles says, “It must have been my parents. They must have wanted me to have an _honorable_ relationship that would give them an heir.” It’s a weak justification, and Charles isn’t sure how his parents could have ever convinced someone to do the job for them. Probably only through the promise of a great deal of money. Very briefly, Charles wonders if his parents would have told him, had they lived long enough, but he dismisses the thought as soon as he thinks it. Hypotheticals are absurd and impractical and Erik looks like he’s going to destroy something.

“It’s alright,” Charles says slowly, the need to explain everything welling up inside him. He knows everything about Erik, or almost everything, but he’s given Erik very little in return. He doesn’t know where to start, so he doesn’t. “We found each other despite the wishes of my parents. And—and it’s still not you, anyway.”

“It’s not okay,” Erik grumbles, voice rough as he rolls them over so he can lean down over Charles, his fingers still tight on Charles’ wrist, “but it _is_ me.”

Charles stares, biting his lip to stop himself speaking. He doesn’t want to interrupt Erik, whose brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyes distant with thought. Instead, Charles settles himself at the edge of Erik’s mind, ready to dive in if he’s needed.

Slowly, Erik sits back, resting on Charles’ thighs. He’s still staring down at Charles’ wrist where his fingers are covering all but _Max_. “I don’t know if it’s real,” Erik starts, voice low and distant, “but I think I can remember my mother calling me Max. Before—before everything.”

Erik’s not sure, afraid that it’s all just wishful thinking, but Charles can also feel the thrum of truth behind the snippets of memory running through Erik’s mind. “Do you want me to help?” Charles asks, pushing his fingers to his temple, but keeping his mind in check.

Erik shakes his head, dropping back to the mattress beside Charles. His grip is steady on Charles’ wrist. “Not yet,” Erik says, almost a whisper. “I think I need it for myself, just a little while longer.”

“Okay,” Charles says, curling himself in against Erik’s side. He gets it, the need to process, the need for space. Neither of them were prepared for this—as much as Charles has spent his entire life looking for this moment, he can’t get over the sick feeling that twists in his stomach when he thinks of how much time he’s spent looking for someone who isn’t _Erik_. And Erik is still somehow an unknown element, still as dedicated as he’s ever been to the goals he’s set for himself. But for now, they fit, curled around each other on the starchy hotel sheets.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Erik says, the name tagged on almost as an afterthought, just for the sake of saying it.

Charles smiles and presses a kiss to Erik’s cheek. “Don’t,” he says, because there’s nothing to apologize for, not yet. Erik looks back at him, an uncertain smile starting to pull at his lips.

Pushing Erik onto his back and following him for a kiss, Charles sends along a silent _I love you_ and they both nearly melt with the force of each other.

(Four weeks later, Moira fires her gun on a beach in Cuba and Erik feels it like a vice on his heart as Charles hits the sand.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Match Made in the Office](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003395) by [BadLuckBlueEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadLuckBlueEyes/pseuds/BadLuckBlueEyes)




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